


those rumours, they have big teeth (hope they bite you)

by DasWarSchonKaputt



Series: all that glitters [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 2014 Winter Olympics, Again, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Figure Skater Eric "Bitty" Bittle, I wimped out of the sex scene, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 20:31:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10771884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasWarSchonKaputt/pseuds/DasWarSchonKaputt
Summary: If you had told Eric even two hours ago that he was going to end his night on a rooftop, drinking champagne and Skyping Kent Parson’s cat, he would have laughed in your face. Then again, if you had told him a few days ago that he was going to win the gold medal, he wouldn’t have believed you either.





	those rumours, they have big teeth (hope they bite you)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic would not exist without the works of SummerFrost, whose fics turned my views of Kent Parson on their head. Read them all. You won't regret it.
> 
> Title comes from a misheard lyric in Green Light by Lorde. It should be "those rumours, they have big teeth, oh they bite you" but eh.

**Eric Bittle** @erbittle • Feb 14   
Just Olympian Things™: Yeah, it’s your National Anthem, but how well do you know it? Well enough? Are you SURE? #podiumpanic

\--

There’s this moment, sometimes, in the air during a jump, when Eric can tell that he’s not going to land it. It doesn’t matter how much he fights for it; sometimes you’re just too off-centre, too low in the air, spinning too slow.

Looking back on it, when this mess began, that’s exactly how he felt. A kiss running on enough alcohol to feel effervescent, leftover euphoria from the win making him feel far too invincible – what kind of a naive idiot looks at that and sees the start of something lasting and meaningful?

But the thing is—Eric never learned to fear falling. In Juniors, he threw himself at the wall that was the quadruple toe loop again and again until reckless determination won out against experience. Of course he knew he could get injured, but that possibility never seemed real. And, well, what’s a couple of bruises in the face of ten points for a single element?

So, when he felt a pair of lips crash into his, Eric wasn’t thinking about broken backs and broken hearts. He thought, _This isn’t going to end well._

And then he did it anyway.

\--

**February 14, 2014**

Sochi is nice at night. There’s a chill to the air that’s absent during the day and, as someone who finds his home on the rink, that provides more than a meagre comfort to Eric. He leans back against the cool metal railings of the roof, and stares down at his phone screen.

He doesn’t really know what he was expecting. No, that’s a lie – he knows exactly what he was expecting. That’s what burns most about all this; when he tries to justify his disappointment to himself, all he can think of is how foolish he has been.

It’s the _Olympics_. It was supposed to be enough.

His gold medal is a solid weight in his pocket. He hasn’t had a chance to drop it off at his room yet, though he anticipates that he’ll be wearing it a lot in the upcoming weeks. Interviews, and sponsorships, and Team USA photo shoots – just thinking of it makes Eric feel tired. His event may be over, but there’s a hell of a lot left to do before Worlds next month.

He reaches for the half full bottle of beer by his feet. It’s lukewarm now, and tastes like carbonated hand sanitizer, but he’s sort of hoping that that all becomes less noticeable the more you drink. It’s not like he has much experience with beer, though. He was never invited to the cool house parties in high school, and Katya would have killed him if he turned up at the rink hungover, anyway.

He’s managed to reduce the amount of beer by another quarter by the time he hears someone climbing up the steps to the roof. That will be Jeremy, then. Eric was wondering how long the other skater would be distracted by the arrival of the hockey team, though he had thought it would be longer.

He slips his phone away, downs the rest of his beer – which still tastes awful – and readies his most sheepish smile. He already knows the lecture he’s going to get about cutting loose and having fun and, _C’mon, Skittles, live a little._

A head of golden hair crests the top of the staircase.

Wait. That’s not Jeremy.

“Oh shit,” Kent Parson, captain of the US hockey team says, “I didn’t think there’d be anyone up here.”

\--

**Elsie Hanover** @elsfreezesover • Feb 7   
This is my new contact image for you now @erbittle

[IMAGE: Bitty mid-trip, hands thrown out and face full of dread. A pair of hands are reaching out to catch him.]

**Eric Bittle** @erbittle • Feb 7   
@elsfreezesover No matter what happens in my events this is how I’m going to be remembered, isn’t it?

\--

Everything Eric knows about Kent Parson could fit onto a flashcard with space to spare.

Kent Parson plays hockey. Kent Parson is blond. Kent Parson models sometimes. Kent Parson has unfairly nice arms.

In truth, that’s all Eric has ever felt he needs to know about him. It’s not like their paths were likely to cross – in fact, Eric has been making a concentrated effort to avoid any and all members of the hockey team ever since they touched down in Sochi. He’s even mostly succeeded, aside from one embarrassing moment during the Athletes Parade.

And, okay, yes, it’s not like they’re going to _do_ anything to Eric, but he’s a male figure skater who grew up in Georgia. He’s learned to be wary.

Eric takes in Kent Parson now, holding a bottle of champagne – Moet, like what the _fuck_ – and an iPad, and puts it together with the date.

“Ah,” Eric says. “No, it’s fine. You do your Skype thing. I’ll just. I’ll go.”

“What? No, you were here first,” Parson says. “It’s a big roof. We can share.”

Eric really can’t think of anything he would enjoy less than third-wheeling some on some hockey player’s Valentines Skype date, but that’s not what he says. Instead, his mouth forms words without his consent, and he asks, “Don’t you have a game tomorrow?”

Parson freezes. “Well, that’s me busted I guess.” He laughs. “If it makes you feel better, I wasn’t going to drink the whole bottle.”

“No, that’s not what I—” Eric says. “It’s just—”

It’s just what? He doesn’t have anything to put on the end of that sentence. Kent Parson isn’t a man that Eric holds any expectations for, nor is he one he is entitled to make judgements of.

Parson shakes his head. “You’re probably right, to be honest. Self-control isn’t one of my strengths.” He looks down at the bottle in his hand. “Shame for it to go to a waste, though. You have no idea how hard it was to smuggle it up here. Horne wanted to wait around with it for some Bitty kid.”

_Bitty,_ Eric thinks. Because his surname is so hard to get right.

“You want?”

“I—what?”

“The champagne,” Parson says. “Do you want it? Wait—you are old enough to drink, right?”

In Russia, sure. Eric’s never had champagne before, but alcohol is alcohol, he supposes. He nods.

Parson’s returning smile is very, very white. Eric takes a moment to marvel that he still has all his teeth, or at least some very convincing dentures, before he takes the champagne out of Parson’s hands.

“I’m Kent,” Parson says, as if he hasn’t spent the past two months as the poster boy for everything that is good and athletic and American. As if Eric didn’t know who he was the second he saw Parson’s face.

“Eric,” Eric says.

Parson smiles again. “So, Eric, want to meet my cat?”

\--

**Kent Parson** @kvparson • Jan 15   
Arguing with Troy about which sport’s athletes are the biggest sluts. He says alpine skiers. I say figure skaters. Who’s right?

**32%**     Alpine skiers   
**25%**     Figure skaters   
**43%** You’re both wrong

**Kent Parson** @kvparson • Jan 15   
I am SHOCKED and HURT at the number of people writing in to tell me that hockey players are the biggest sluts.

**Kent Parson** @kvparson • Jan 15   
I mean, it’s true, but the fact that you all knew it means we have a reputation.

\--

If you had told Eric even two hours ago that he was going to end his night on a rooftop, drinking champagne and Skyping Kent Parson’s cat, he would have laughed in your face. Then again, if you had told him a few days ago that he was going to win the gold medal, he wouldn’t have believed you either. He touches the medal in his pocket again. Gold. Still there. Still real.

Eric takes a long sip of the champagne. It doesn’t really feel like it’s doing anything, but it tastes okay. Better than the beer, at least.

“Your cat’s nice,” he says.

“My cat’s the best,” Parson replies. He scrunches his nose up at the iPad screen. It’s annoyingly cute. “She hates basically everyone. It’s amazing.”

“She seems to like you well enough.”

“That’s now,” Parson says. “I still have scars from our first few months together. She tore me up more than hockey ever could.”

Eric looks at the screen, where Parson’s cat is following his finger around, utterly entranced. “I hope you pay your cat sitter extortionately well,” he says, instead of, _I’m not sure I believe that._

“I pay everyone I employ extortionately well,” Parson replies. “The duty of the rich, and all that.”

Eric honestly wouldn’t know. He concentrates on the champagne bottle, instead.

“So,” Parson says, “is there any reason you’re sitting up here on the roof as opposed to partying it up a few floors down? Or is that kind of thing just not your scene?”

Eric shrugs. “I guess,” he says. “Just not feeling up to a celebration tonight, I guess.”

“Hey, I’m not going to judge you for wanting to bow out of some twirl girl’s big day,” Parson replies.

Eric accidentally inhales his next mouthful of champagne and chokes. Parson looks at him in concern, but Eric waves him off, wheezing, “Twirl girl?”

“Is that derogatory?” Parson asks. “I don’t know. It’s what my—friend used to call them. It pissed him off when they messed up the ice before us. The way he talked about it, you’d think toe picks were the work of the devil.”

Eric stares at him, not sure where to begin. _Is it derogatory?_ Of course it’s derogatory. Figure skating is a difficult sport, and what it asks of your body is close to ridiculous. To have it reduced to—to girls in short skirts doing twizzles is offensive on a level Eric can’t even vocalise.

And that’s not mentioning the fact that the ladies’ event hasn’t even _happened_ yet. The gold medal that they’re celebrating – Eric’s gold medal – is in men’s figure skating, which, it just so happens, is an event the US has been doing much better in than hockey in recent Olympics.

“Wow, okay,” Parson says, “don’t hold back, Eric.”

And that’s when Eric realises that he’s been talking aloud. His stomach drops, and he looks down at the champagne like it’s betrayed him. He itches to be elsewhere, but he can’t think of a way to escape the roof without somehow making everything worse.

“Well, I guess that explains why everyone at the party looked at me like I was an asshole when I asked to meet the woman of the hour.”

The laugh takes Eric off-guard, even though it’s not even a proper laugh. It’s more of an amused exhale, and it’s flavoured with relief. “Thank God you didn’t tweet anything,” he offers.

Parson smiles, and Eric has to remind himself not to stare at it too long. Fucking champagne.

“You don’t get to be too smug about my screw up, though,” Parson says, “seeing as you’re drinking the guy’s champagne.”

There’s an irony in that that Eric can pick apart when he’s had less to drink. “He’ll forgive me,” he tells Parson, flippant. “Wait—were you really going to drink the champagne you brought to a party as a gift?”

“Couldn’t find the person which it was intended for, so I figured why not,” Parson says. “In retrospect, I may not have been looking hard enough. I don’t know, though. I kind of like the way everything’s turned out. I doubt he’s anywhere near as cute as you are.”

And that’s—that’s a line, right? Eric turns towards Parson, searching his face for some hint that it was—something other than a taunt, or whatever. There’s a challenging twist to Parson’s features, like he’s saying, _Yeah, I said that, and now what are you going to do about it?_ It’s—endearing in its arrogance.

Eric inhales. _C’mon, kid,_ he tells himself. _Be brave._

“You done Skyping your cat?” he asks.

“Yeah, wh—”

Eric leans across and he kisses him.

His stomach lurches like he’s spinning in the air, off-centre and too late to save himself, but he ignores it the moment Kent Parson, everything athletic and straight and American, kisses him back.

\--

**Kent Parson** @kvparson • Feb 13   
Troy just texted me asking for a souvenir from the Olympics. I’m going to bring him back my bedspread.

**Troy Hooper** @troyswoops • Feb 13   
@kvparson why are you like this?

\--

Eric doesn’t know exactly how it happens. The rest of the night blurs together like a poorly spliced movie montage, escaping the roof with Parson – “Kent,” he moans, “for the love of God, call me Kent when you have your hand on my—shit!” – stumbling back to Kent’s room, and falling onto Kent’s single bed hard enough to make the mattress creak. Everything’s a little bit more and a little bit less, all at the same time.

It’s just – it’s nice. Kent doesn’t make him feel forbidden, or perverse. There’s nothing frantic or rushed about the way he slowly takes Eric apart. And the stupid, smug grin on Kent’s face whenever he makes Eric shudder, or moan, or curse, is just – it’s nice, is all.

In another universe, Eric thinks, this could have meant something different.

He falls asleep tangled between Kent’s limbs, the two of them loose and motionless at the centre of Kent’s single bed.

He wakes up to the sound of the shower running.

For a moment, he lies there, soaking it all in. The mattress beneath him is ridiculously comfy, which is all kinds of unfair, because Eric thought they were all supposed to be equally bad, and the sheets smell faintly of sea salt, Kent, and sex. He had sex with Kent Parson. He had _sex_ with _Kent Parson_. Eric can’t decide if he should classify it as the height of patriotism, or if it’s more akin to defiling a national monument.

That said, Kent more than knew what he was doing. Eric doubts he was the first to be invited into his bed.

The shower cuts off. Eric pushes himself upright in bed, languidly stretching his arms. His muscles ache in a decidedly pleasant way, the same way he feels the day after all major competitions.

The door to the bathroom opens and Eric turns to see Kent, still dripping water, a towel wrapped around his waist. Eric traces a droplet with his eyes as it runs down Kent’s abs, and then hits the towel.

“Like what you see?” Kent teases.

Eric smiles. He feels buoyant and sexy, and the confidence that wraps around him is not something that he is used to. He drags his eyes up to Kent’s face. “I think most of America has seen the same thing by now.”

Kent smirks. “That wasn’t a no.”

Eric shrugs, going for ambivalent but probably hitting closer to unashamed.

Kent shakes his head, and reaches for a pair of sweat pants. Then he freezes. “So,” he says, picking something up. “Guess I made a bit more of an ass out of myself than I thought.”

He holds up Eric’s gold medal. Eric doesn’t doubt that he can read the small inscription reading _MEN’S SINGLE FIGURE SKATING_.

Kent throws the medal at him, and Eric catches it numbly. His stomach twists, and he feels abruptly guilty. There’s a joke he could make, about the champagne, and irony, but the words won’t form. Instead, he flounders and tries, “Don’t you have—practice?”

Kent smile takes on an edge that he didn’t even stray close to last night. “Already been and gone,” he says. “You slept right through it. I guess winning a gold medal takes it out of you.”

It feels pointed, and vaguely cruel, but Eric isn’t sure why. He scrunches his fingers in Kent’s sheets. “Sort of,” he mumbles.

Kent stares at him for a few moments longer, before shaking his head. “Sorry, that was—I’m being petty. Ignore it.”

Eric watches him, gold medal held loosely in one hand, and bites his lip. Kent strips out of his towel and pulls on a pair of sweats. “Did you check your phone when you woke up?” Kent asks, searching the floor for a T-shirt.

“No, why?”

“It’s been blowing up all morning,” Kent answers. “Someone called Jeremy? Whoever he is, he’s not happy.”

_Shit,_ Eric thinks, reaching over the side of the bed for where his phone ended up last night. _Jeremy._

He unlocks the screen and scrolls through the multitude of messages and missed calls. It’s not as bad as it could be – after a couple of hours, Jeremy surmises that he probably left with someone – but it’s bad enough to summon another twinge of guilt. Eric owes a lot to Jeremy, who shook his hand two years ago, his first time at Senior Nationals, and took him under his wing. There’s a ten year age difference between them, but Jeremy has never once looked down on him, and he’s been a steadfast friend and mentor to him.

Not to mention, Jeremy’s been pretty down since… Well, the short program didn’t exactly go how he wanted it to.

_Am fine,_ Eric taps out quickly. _Went back to someone else’s room. See you at the rink later._

His phone buzzes with the reply almost immediately. _You sure know how to scare a guy, Skittles. See you then._

“Who’s Skittles?”

Eric yelps and almost drops the phone.

Kent’s grin is wolfish as he leans close to Eric’s shoulder. He’s attractive even when he’s acting like an ass, and it’s the furthest thing from fair. Stupid hockey players. Stupid Olympics ad campaigns. Stupid Kent Parson’s stupid face.

“Me,” Eric says. “It’s a nickname. Sort of a thing on _taste the rainbow_.”

“Taste the rainbow,” Kent repeats, sounding unimpressed. He settles on the bed next to Eric. “No offence, but isn’t that sort of homophobic?”

“It was the program that I won Junior Worlds with – _Somewhere Over the Rainbow_ ,” Eric explains hotly. “It’s got nothing to do with—that. It was the program that made people notice me for the first time.”

Kent is quiet for a long time. One of his arms snakes around Eric’s shoulders, his thumb drawing broad circles on his arm.

Eric feels himself go stiff. “I don’t think,” he starts to say, but drops off when a pair of lips attach to his neck.

“Hmm?”

_I don’t think we should do this. I don’t think this is something people do with their one night stands. I don’t think—_

“Don’t you have a game?” Eric asks.

“Not until half four,” Kent says.

Eric grabs the fabric of Kent’s T-shirt and pulls Kent up off his neck. “I have gala practice with some other skaters late tonight,” he says.

“Okay?” Kent says.

“So no penetration,” Eric clarifies.

Kent grins yet again. “That’s not a deterrent,” he says.

Eric raises his eyebrows, and Kent leans in to kiss him yet again. Eric feels their lips touch, and he closes his eyes. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he can almost pretend that this is anything other than a terrible idea.

\--

**Eric Bittle** @erbittle • Feb 8   
#bronzehasmorefun

[IMAGE: A selfie of the Team USA figure skaters, from their position on the podium. They’re all grinning, flashing their medals at the camera.]

\--

“So,” Kent says, sprawled over Eric’s chest afterwards. “Figure skating, huh?”

“Figure skating,” Eric confirms.

“How did you get into that, then?”

Eric closes his eyes. “I started out in hockey, actually.”

Kent shifts on Eric’s torso. “Really?”

“Mm,” Eric hums. “I didn’t do it for long, though. I arrived early at the rink one day and caught the tail end of a figure skating session. There were about three guys on the ice, doing all these crazy jumps and spins, and I just thought it was the coolest thing I had ever seen. I started figure skating lessons a week later.”

“Sounds like you had it all figured out pretty early on,” Kent says.

“Not really,” Eric replies. “Skating competitively takes more drive and ambition than I ever had when I was younger. I didn’t start taking it seriously until my first Junior Grand Prix.”

“What happened?”

“I missed out on making it to the final by .03 points,” he says. “It was… It was an eye-opener.”

Eric still remembers his coach’s face when she saw his score. It was the first time that she had ever been openly disappointed in his performance at a competition, and the emotion bled into him. _I could have done it,_ he realised. _I could have jumped a triple Lutz instead of going for the double. I could have made it._

“Before then, I worked hard, but I guess I never really saw myself winning,” he says. “Competing was just something I did because people told me I should. In retrospect, it must have driven my coach mad.”

They fall into silence again. Eric stares at the crack of sunlight fighting through the gap between Kent’s curtains.

“Can I ask you something?” Kent asks, breaking the quiet.

Eric nods. “Sure.”

“Why were you really up on the roof last night?”

Eric opens his mouth, and then he closes it.

“Sorry,” Kent says, shifting again. “You don’t have to answer that.”

“No, it’s just…” Eric trails off. “It sounds kind of pathetic when I say it aloud.”

Kent rolls over so that he can look up at Eric. “I misappropriated your champagne and left a party to go Skype my cats on Valentine’s Day,” he says. “I challenge you to do worse than that.”

Eric forces the fingers of his left hand to unclench and stretch out on Kent’s sheets. “I was calling my parents to talk about winning the medal,” he says. “It was… I always told myself that I would come out to them if I won gold at the Olympics. It was this dumb promise I made myself when I was fifteen. Like, it would be enough, or something. But I was talking to them, and I caught myself thinking, _Why not wait until after Worlds? Get a gold there, first_. And it just sort of hit me – I’m never going to do it. No matter what I do, it’s never going to be enough.”

Kent pushes off Eric’s chest. “I’m sorry, but that’s bullshit,” he says.

Eric props himself up with his elbows. “What?”

“ _It’s never going to be enough_ , what, like being gay is something you have to do penance for?” Kent sits up. “You don’t have to prove yourself to earn the right to be who you are. That’s bullshit.”

Eric’s mouth drops open, and something flares to life in his chest. It takes him a moment to realise that it’s anger. “Oh,” he says, “because you’re the paragon of owning your sexuality. I must have missed all those headlines about Kent Parson, gay hockey extraordinaire.”

“Bi,” Kent corrects harshly. “I’m bisexual. And there’s a massive difference between our situations – I work in the NHL, which is already violent enough without inviting other players to beat the shit out of me. You – you’re a figure skater. You’re not going to be the first.”

“What, because figure skating’s just chock full of homosexuals?” Eric demands. “Such a queer sport _must_ have a truckload of queer athletes, right?”

“No, because when Obama made the casting call for gay athletes, your sport _stepped up_ ,” Kent retorts. “Everyone knows about Johnny Weir, but it’s not just him. It’s Brian Boitano, and Jeffrey Buttle – and even that Canadian guy, Brian Orser.”

Eric doesn’t know how to tell Kent that he doesn’t understand anything about the politics of figure skating. He doesn’t know how to articulate the exact dimensions and justifications of his fears, how he can’t just come out and hope for the best. So he doesn’t.

“You know this much about gay figure skaters, but you didn’t know I’d won the gold medal?” he asks, voice sounding strangled and still mottled with anger.

“There was an article online—” Kent shakes his head. “That’s not the point. The point is, Eric, winning Olympic Gold doesn’t have anything to do with it. If people have a problem with your sexuality, they’re going to have a problem with it regardless of your successes. Some might even have _more_ of a problem with it. But that’s not on you and, as hard as it might be to realise this, sometimes there is nothing you can do to change their mind. It’s not a question of enough, Eric. It never will be.”

Eric deflates. “Speaking from experience?”

Kent shrugs. “Some things you learn the hard way.”

“Sorry,” Eric says.

Kent shrugs again, a sad smile on his face. “Well, the afterglow is well and truly ruined,” he says, “but I need a nap. You in?”

Eric looks at him, looks at Kent Parson, and he can’t find it in himself to match the man in front of him to the figure in the adverts. “Yeah,” he says.

And that’s that.

\--

**Kent Parson •** Feb 15   
Congratulations to America’s very own Eric Bittle for being the youngest OGM in men’s figure skating since 1948! [champagne emoji]

\--

Eric wakes up alone.

The room is dark, and his clothes are folded on a chair, his gold medal and phone on top of them. There’s a note as well, but Eric doesn’t want to read it.

This is what it all comes down to in the end. You don’t hook up at the Olympics looking for something lasting. He and Kent don’t even train in the same half of the country. It was nice, though, while it lasted.

Even though he never thought it would end any differently, Eric still feels like an idiot.

He showers in silence. He gets dressed. Drapes his medal over his shoulders. He opens the note.

_(702)-555-1950  
-Kent _

Eric already knows he’s never going to use that number. He puts it in his phone anyway.

On the back of the note, he scribbles out a hasty, _THANKS._ It’s impersonal, but it’s all Eric can bring himself to write.

Then he leaves.

\--

“You should have seen the game, Eric,” Jeremy says. “Ash and I went to watch and it was _insane_. Parson was like a beast on the ice – checks literally bounced off him. Russia didn’t stand a chance.”

“Sounds like you guys had fun,” Eric says, distractedly. He runs through his stretches, feeling looser than he was expecting

“You should have come,” Jeremy says. “You used to play hockey, right?”

Eric shrugs, looking out at the ice. “Hey, what do you bet I could land a triple Lutz-Lutz combination?” he asks.

Jeremy snorts. “Still stuck on pulling that off?” he asks. “You’re going to injure yourself one of these days.”

Eric grins. “I’ll make the second one a double.”

“Katya’s going to kill you.”

Eric shrugs. “She hasn’t yet.”

\--

**Eric Bittle** @erbittle • Feb 22   
You know what? I lied. #goldhasmorefun

[IMAGE: A gala practice. Bitty is grinning from ear to ear as both halves of the Olympic Champion ice dance team hold him in the air above their heads. They’re all wearing their Team USA kit, gold medals gleaming under the blue light of the rink. In the background, another skater can be seen laughing.]

\--

END

**Author's Note:**

> Bitty being an Olympic figure skater was inspired not only by my chronic fondness for Olympic AUs, but also because I saw [a picture of Jeffrey Buttle](http://www.sudburysportsmag.ca/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/Jeff-Buttle.jpg), and it reminded me hard of Bitty.
> 
> Bitty tripping over during the Athlete’s Parade is even more hilarious when you realise that he was wearing [this](http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/sites/default/files/custom/Stephanie/Zach_Parise_embed.jpg) when it happened. (Designer, what were you thinking?)
> 
> In this fic, Bitty is a very accomplished jumper; it’s the skill he’s best known for. The Lutz is actually his favourite jump, shortly followed by the Axel. The Lutz-Lutz combination he mentions is probably best described as difficult, because it requires you to change the direction of rotation in the second Lutz, which not many skaters can do. (Stéphane Lambiel could famously rotate both ways when jumping, but I can’t think of anyone else off the top of my head.)
> 
> I did some research on medal engraving, and though it can at times be very small (sometimes on the side of the disk) at the Sochi Olympics it was much larger and much more visible. See [here](http://assets.nydailynews.com/polopoly_fs/1.1358420.1369922916!/img/httpImage/image.jpg_gen/derivatives/article_750/medalsweb31s-3-web.jpg).
> 
> Also, Kent’s mattress is much softer than Bitty’s because he got a memory foam topper shipped to the Athlete’s Village. This was inspired by real life Olympian Jeremy Abbott, who shipped an air mattress with him to Sochi.
> 
> And lastly, Bitty really would be one of the youngest men’s singles skaters to win gold at the Olympics! Dick Button has him beat by a matter of days.


End file.
